


First Night in Mirkwood

by Zaadi



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Elven road, Gen, Mirkwood, Missing Scene, The Meaning of Objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-08 11:07:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12863199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zaadi/pseuds/Zaadi
Summary: On their journey to Erebor, Thorin and his company must traverse the overrun forest of Mirkwood, taking the only safe path through, the Elven road. In other words, what it says on the tin.





	First Night in Mirkwood

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a little scene that I wrote for two basic reasons. First, the movie would have benefited from more dwarf time in Mirkwood, before they encounter the Elves. Time spent actually interacting with each other. Second, I felt that inserting Kili's mommy rock just so Kiliel could have a love token belittled us all. It superficialized the stone itself, and it distanced Kili from his family. I thought that if Kili had an object that truly meant something to him, it should be introduced earlier, and be given the heft it deserves.

**First Night in Mirkwood**

* * *

 

The moon-white Elf Road carved a serpentine corridor through the darkness. Above, branches contorted and intertwined, weaving layers of impenetrable canopy. Thorin had led the way, single file, and the forest had offered no sound but their own boots and heavy breathing. No sound for certain. Bilbo often swore he heard a distant crackling of footsteps on dead leaves, or the rustling of a breeze he did not feel.

When Thorin called a halt for the night, Bilbo was not grateful. Mirkwood wanted to pounce—delays were unwise—nor was he the only one to so think.

“Are we sure it’s night?” Fili asked, glancing between the trees where undulating roots leered up from the forest floor.

“We could continue for a few more hours,” Kili added hopefully.

Dwalin, bringing up the rear, grunted an assent, which Thorin briefly considered. But Ori had already collapsed, and Dori was evaluating the stones for comfort; Bifur and Bofur had loosened their packs, staring expectantly at Thorin; and Bombur was collecting twigs and branches—anything within an arm’s reach from the edge of the road—for a fire. Balin sighed.

“Night or no,” Balin said to Fili, “it’s time to rest.”

Dinner consisted of sparse rations from Beorn. They ate mostly in silence, with only Bombur and Dori muttering about the paltry portions. Bilbo, too, missed his pantry, his kitchen—but his longing for breakfast, supper, tea, elevensies—it had become a dull ache. A private luxury.

“At least the road is warm,” Ori commented as half the company turned in for the (possibly) night.

“Which is to say,” Bofur replied, “that it’s not cold.”

Bilbo agreed. The Elf Road, their strange haven—cracked and stretching through the centuries—had no intrinsic warmth. It had no innate chill, either. It was an unyielding bulwark against the pernicious forest—a forest cramped with bramble and overstuffed with trees, where rank rot permeated like a necrotic fog and unidentified scurryings plagued the mind. By contrast, the Elf Road was a veritable hearth.

Bilbo lay down facing the fire Bombur and Dori stubbornly maintained. Bofur and Ori also sat around it, as did Bifur and Gloin, who, theoretically taking the first watch, turned wary eyes down the road behind. Bifur growled something in Khuzdul, to which Gloin nodded and Bofur retorted, in an attempt at levity.

Bilbo closed his eyes, determined to turn the chatter around the campfire into a spell against the osmotic gloom; he reminded himself that Dwalin—along with Nori—was on guard in the van; he strained his ears to pick out the breathing of Kili behind him, or of Thorin beside Kili—but heard only the _swwsshst swwsshst_ of Fili sharpening one of his numerous knives. Fili alone challenged the forest, leaning against his pack, beside his brother and uncle, with one leg protruding off the road.

Bilbo counted his companions. _Dwalin, Nori, Balin, Oin, Thorin, Fili, Kili, Bofur, Bombur, Dori, Ori, Gloin, Bifur_ —in his head, in Gandalf’s voice. And it failed to soothe.

Instead, Bilbo found himself rubbing the ring in his pocket—an unconscious motion he couldn’t remember starting. Smooth and cool and magnetic. Glancing quickly around, he took it out—a flash of pride at having won it from that Goblin rat. He rotated the small, golden halo between his fingers—this would be his Adventure Talisman, his prize—better than whatever lay in Thorin’s hoard. Presumably. He really had no idea what lay in the Lonely Mountain, other than treasure—there might not even be a dragon—the ring gleamed as if winking. _Ridiculous_ , Bilbo thought, shaking it off. He would fulfill his contract, and the share Thorin promised would be more than ample compensation—it’s not like he needed the wealth—that wasn’t why he was here, why he stepped out his door. This ring—this ring that he’d won through ingenuity—well, found, in all honesty, just lying in the muck—but he had outwitted the _gollum_ -gurgling creature. With a question rather than a riddle—but when one is faced with the prospect of being killed then eaten, hopefully in that order . . .

A simple ring. Smiling knowingly. Metaphorically speaking, as rings can’t actually smile. But it shone perfectly in its goldness—maybe the gollum-creature polished it—talked to it—his only friend in his dank, cavernous Goblin hole.

Bilbo exhaled as though he’d been forgetting to breathe. _Ridiculous,_ he again chided, tucking the ring securely back in his pocket and rolling over so that his mind, too, would turn to something else.

Kili lay supine, staring at the warped canopy above. He rubbed some small object in his hand, his thumb moving back and forth in time with his brother’s whetstone. On the other side of Kili, the lump of Thorin rose and fell in steady rhythm, and on the road ahead, Bilbo discerned the silhouettes of Dwalin and Nori. Somewhere in between, Bilbo knew, but could not see, Balin and Oin rested, one of them snoring softly. Someone, at least, was sleeping.

“Lucky charm?” Bilbo asked Kili.

Kili’s thumb stopped—but no twitch or tick or nod of the head. Bilbo realized the question may have been intrusive, so he pulled his blanket around his shoulders and concentrated on Fili’s sibilant tempo.

“A promise to my mother,” Kili finally said. He raised the object wanly—a small black stone—and added an unconvincing shrug. Thorin grabbed Kili’s hand, taking the small black stone and holding it up, as though presenting it. By a dim flick of firelight, Bilbo saw a rune etched on the surface. He leaned forward, overcome with curiosity.

Thorin considered the stone, staring with the same expression as Kili’s thumb—with the same expression as the rooted, implacable stones of the Elf Road—with the expression of Orcrist, sword of ancient wars and derring-do, buried among the detritus of a troll cave.

“We’re safe on the road,” Thorin said, returning the stone to Kili and closing his eyes. “Get some rest.”

Kili swiftly pocketed his stone and fidgeted, shifting each limb yet remaining, in the end, as he was. Bilbo lay down on his back, while Fili, having at some point paused, resumed sharpening his knives. And the hushed, uninterrupted conversation around the campfire continued unabated.

 

_* * *_

**Author's Note:**

> Of course, the audience needs to already know that Kili's mother is Thorin's sister. Or be told soon thereafter. I pretended it was established in the first movie.


End file.
